Beyond the Ice Limit

39

GIDEON PUSHED OPEN the personnel hatch and pulled himself up and out of John, gulping down fresh air. God, he was glad to be back on the ship. He felt badly shaken at what he’d just seen. At least Alex had struggled to the last. Frayne, on the other hand, had driven straight into the creature’s maw. Was he drunk? But he sure hadn’t looked drunk through the viewport. On the other hand, his actions had hardly been normal, either. Like a robot—or zombie.

He felt steadying hands grasping him as he came down the ladder. When he reached the deck, his legs almost collapsed from underneath him; Garza helped hold him up. The man looked flushed and tense; even Glinn was not his usual inscrutable self.

“What the hell did Frayne think he was doing?” Gideon said, gasping.

“Fuck if any of us know,” said Garza. Gideon was grateful for the man’s iron grip as he pulled himself together.

“I’m okay now,” he said after a moment. Garza eased his arm off.

“You figure out who helped him?” Gideon asked, smoothing down his clothes.

“One of his lab partners, Reece. We questioned the guy, and he insists he didn’t do anything—even though we have him on tape, clear as day, working the A-frame to lower George into the water. Claims he must have amnesia.” Garza scoffed. “Obviously bullshit. He’s in the brig now.”

Gideon turned to Glinn. “And you? What do you think?”

“The only rational explanation I can put forward at this point is that Frayne was on drugs. Maybe he himself didn’t know what he was doing.”

The focused, fixated expression he’d seen on Frayne’s face did not look like that of a drugged-out man. And how had he convinced his lab partner to help him? “Are you sure Frayne and his lab partner aren’t involved in some sort of sabotage?” Gideon asked.

“For whom?”

“Perhaps Chile is still pissed off about the Rolvaag’s sinking of the Almirante Ramirez. Inserted a saboteur on board.”

“That’s a possibility,” said Glinn.

Striding across the deck came the tall, impressive form of Chief Officer Lennart. “Mr. Glinn? We’ve got an incoming aircraft. Helicopter.”

Glinn turned sharply. “Identity?”

“It’s an EC155, originating in Ushuaia, Argentina, but registered in the US. The pilot says they’re transporting a passenger to us.”

“A passenger? Who the devil is it?”

“They won’t say. They’ve asked permission to land.”

“Deny—unless they identify their passenger.”

“I’m sorry, maritime regulations require we allow a landing. They have to refuel—they don’t have enough for a return.”

Glinn shook his head. “I want armed security at the helipad. I don’t want that chopper leaving until we have a chance to learn who it is and what they want.”

“Our bird’s on the pad,” said Lennart. “We’re going to have to take off and hover to let them land. That means we can’t hold them too long.”

Glinn turned. “We’ll hold them long enough to find out what their game is. Gideon, Manuel, arm yourselves at the arms locker and meet me by the helipad.”

The helipad was amidships, on a raised platform forward of the DSV hangar. As they collected weapons from the locker and then worked their way up stairways and corridors to the metal steps leading to the helipad, they could hear their own AStar chopper taking off. Standing in the hatchway, Gideon watched as it cleared the pad and moved off into a holding pattern to the south. Soon a new sound could be heard: the faint throbbing of another chopper, coming from the opposite direction. Emerging from the hatch, Gideon glanced toward the sound and saw a large helicopter emerging out of the clear blue sky, moving fast. The .45 he had been given was heavy and cold on his hip.

Gideon, Glinn, Garza, and a security team remained crouching to one side of the helipad, at the bottom of the stairs, to keep out of the backwash and also to provide cover if shooting began. As the chopper thundered in and began to descend above them, Gideon raised his head, squinting through the powerful rotor-wash to watch the landing.

The roar subsided. Glinn was already shouting orders into his headset. “Security, move in and cover the chopper. I want answers before we refuel and allow them to depart.”

Three security men, guns drawn, scrambled toward the cockpit. Glinn rose. “Come with me,” he said.

They mounted the stairs and crouched on either side of the chopper. Meanwhile, the rear cabin door opened; a scuffed and worn leather bag was thrown out; and then a single man emerged. He was lean to the point of gauntness, face lined and weathered to the texture of brown leather, his blue eyes glittering with suspicion and antagonism. He paused, skewering one person after another with his gaze. When Glinn saw him, he rose, then shoved the gun back into his belt. The man’s gaze paused at Glinn, then passed him by and came to rest on Garza, who was also holstering his weapon, a sour expression on his face.

“McFarlane,” Garza finally said. “Sam McFarlane. You son of a bitch.”

“Yeah,” McFarlane said after a moment, with a cold smile that held no trace of mirth. “I’m here. And now things are really going to get fucked up.”